The Valhalla Saga

by Snorri Kristjansson

  Hjalti pointed to the lee side of the house. ‘Over there.’

  That first day, King Olav had annexed what had used to be noblemen’s lodgings set a few yards from the back of the great hall, turning it into a god-house for his One God.

  ‘Must get lonely in there,’ one of the grey-haired men said.

  ‘He likes it that way,’ Hjalti said.

  ‘He’s a fool,’ Storrek said. ‘Let’s do this.’

  Gunnthor pointed Hjalti to the rough wooden door and he reached for it and pushed. Soft candlelight spilled out onto the snow.

  King Olav’s voice came from within. ‘Who’s there?’

  Hjalti stepped into the chapel, followed by Gunnthor, Storrek and their men. This was the first time he’d set foot in the king’s holiest space and for a moment he struggled to think.

  Every surface in the small, converted house had been stripped bare. A man-sized cross had been suspended between two beams, and the way it hung like a human body made him shiver. It caught the light off four flickering candles set in buffed shields that cast an eerie glow on the men crowded by the door.

  At the far end of the house, a small table held what was easily the biggest book Hjalti had ever seen.

  King Olav knelt before the book, head down, facing away. ‘You know I do not wish to be disturbed,’ he said.

  ‘I know, my King,’ Hjalti said, and cursed himself inwardly. Old habits died hard. ‘It’s just that—’

  ‘We’re going to negotiate,’ Gunnthor said.

  There was a moment’s silence before the king spoke. His voice was cold. ‘We have already negotiated,’ he said. ‘Leave me to my prayers.’

  ‘Turn around, you little shit,’ Storrek growled. The king didn’t reply and he repeated, ‘I said, turn around and face us.’

  ‘What – like a warrior?’ the king said. He sighed and rose, still facing away, and closed the book almost tenderly. ‘What do you expect, Storrek? Fear in my eyes?’ He turned around, made the sign of the cross and looked all seven of them up and down. He was unarmed.

  Storrek didn’t flinch. ‘Listen, you puffed-up Southern arse-badger! We don’t want you here, we don’t want your stupid god and we don’t want your new rule.’

  King Olav looked at Gunnthor, then Hjalti. ‘Why are you with them?’ he asked.

  ‘Gunnthor is my cousin on the father’s side,’ Hjalti said.

  ‘Blood is blood,’ Gunnthor said.

  ‘Enough chat,’ Storrek said before the king could speak. The big man reached for the sword by his side. ‘Let’s—’

  A high-pitched scream from outside drowned the rest of his sentence.

  A deep, guttural roar followed.

  ‘What the—?’ Hjalti’s words caught in his mouth as something thudded into the wall, shaking the big cross. Like the others, his eyes flashed towards the movement, and when he looked back it was too late. Hunched down, elbows out and shoulder first, King Olav swung a punch at Storrek, crashed through the group of men and launched himself out of the door.

  ‘GET HIM!’ Gunnthor roared.

  One of Storrek’s lumpy followers was closest, and Hjalti watched him barrel through the door after the king, only to be swept out of sight as something big and darker than the night crashed into him.

  ‘What’s going on out there?’ Storrek snarled, pushing towards the open door. Shouts carried in from the darkness to meet him.

  ‘We’re under attack,’ Gunnthor snarled, holding back the fat chieftain and staring at the door. ‘Think for a second, you oaf.’

  King Olav’s voice rang out, strong from years of use at sea. ‘TO ME,’ he shouted. ‘DRAW STEEL! MEN OF THE NORTH, TO ME!’

  ‘Shit,’ Storrek muttered.

  Gunnthor whirled around, eyes blazing. ‘No, we’re still in this. If we rush out now – right now – if we rush out, rally the men and fight whatever’s out there beside him he cannot have us murdered in front of his own. He’d have to kill Hjalti too, and his men would never trust him again. Go! We’ll face what’s out there together.’ As he spoke he moved to the door, pushed through it – and came face to face with a brown bear, reared up onto its back legs. The corpse of Storrek’s man lay discarded to one side, nothing but a sack of meat and broken bones.

  Something cracked behind Hjalti and he was pushed to the side as Storrek passed him, muttering curses under his breath. ‘GET BACK,’ he roared at the bear, taking up position next to Gunnthor and brandishing the butt of the six-foot cross. ‘GET BACK, YOU BASTARD!’

  The bear roared back and swatted at the wood, but it missed and Storrek used the opening, put all his heft behind it and rammed the thick wood in the bear’s chest. Roaring in pain, the animal fell back down onto all fours and ran away through the snow.

  ‘Out! Everyone out!’ Gunnthor commanded. The men fanned out behind him with blades drawn. The king was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘There’s blood in the air,’ Hjalti said.

  ‘Oh, you fucking think?’ Storrek growled at him. ‘There was a fucking bear right in front of us!’ Nostrils flaring, the big chieftain looked ready to attack the next closest thing, which was Hjalti.

  ‘Fight the enemy,’ Gunnthor snapped. ‘We need to move. They’re around the corner.’ Storrek turned again, but spared Hjalti a killing glare. The seven moved away from King Olav’s prayer-house, staying close to the wall of the longhouse. Sounds of battle bounced off the walls around them.

  ‘Look at this,’ one of Gunnthor’s men said. ‘Tracks.’

  ‘That would be the bear,’ Storrek growled.

  They rounded the corner of the longhouse and stopped. ‘Not just the bear,’ Gunnthor said quietly.

  The square in front of the great hall was crowded with men and beasts, all fighting for their lives. A handful of men with spears had formed a line facing an enraged elk, who was laying into them with no regard for the metal points digging into its flesh. Two forest cats the size of well-fed dogs tore at the throat of a body in the snow, claws digging into dead flesh, but within moments the beasts were up again and bounding towards their next target. Fighters streamed out of the longhouse, but they were held back by a group of men struggling to strike at a swarm of huge rats running at and over them and heading into the hall.

  At the far end of the space outside the longhouse, King Olav and another four men had cornered the bear and were laying into it. As Gunnthor’s men watched, one of them stepped too close. The bear’s paw crushed his skull in the blink of an eye.

  ‘This is where we get it back,’ Gunnthor hissed. He drew a deep breath, let out a battle-cry, immediately echoed by the men behind him, and charged into the fray.

  *

  King Olav delivered mercy to the bear, but not until the beast had taken four men with him. Hastily dressed fighters had rushed into the square after he’d called, wielding anything they could find; when the frenzy was over they counted eight dead, five badly wounded and three men covered in cuts, bites and already festering scratches from the rats.

  The old chieftains stood over the body of a big forest cat, ­struggling to catch their breath. Blood leaked from a nasty gash on Gunnthor’s leg. ‘In my whole life I’ve never seen anything like this,’ he hissed. Storrek didn’t answer but noisily cleared his throat several times, then spat.

  Animal roars echoed out in the dark. ‘To me!’ the king shouted, charging out of the square towards the noise, and well over a hundred warriors followed.

  ‘See that?’ Gunnthor said.

  ‘We need some way to get him away from the men,’ Storrek said.

  ‘We won’t do that here,’ Hjalti said. ‘We need to be in the middle of it.’ With that he ran after the king, joining the warriors heading towards the main road into town, following the sounds of lowing, hissing and roaring.

  Gunnthor glanced at Storrek. ‘Little fucker has a point. MOVE!�
��

  The old chieftains followed Hjalti into a nightmare.

  Fangs, claws and pointed horns were everywhere, enemies in many shapes, united only by the fear-crazed look in their eyes. Wounded men were screaming and the rich, thick smell of blood permeated the night. Hjalti swung his sword and connected with the shoulder of a wolf. He raised his foot to push off the animal and pulled the blade free, only just avoiding the snapping jaws. An elk came charging through the crowd, head down, spearing anything in its path and tossing it into the air.

  King Olav was in the thick of it, pushing and cutting, striking and blocking, screaming at his warriors to stand firm. Fat Storrek, reborn in battle, was throwing his weight around with fierce joy on his face. Life and death was decided, moment by moment by never-ending moment.

  Hjalti pushed away everything that made him human and gave himself to the battle.

  *

  Olav exhaled and watched the white cloud in front of his face. The fighting men had fallen silent around him as the fear drained out of them and now the stench of the dead animals was everywhere – in the air, in their clothes, in the snow. The butchers had been at the carcases, but they were all inedible, all blue-tinged like the wolf.

  Now hundreds of faces stared at him as he turned to Gunnthor and the traitors, feeling for his sword as he did. He thought of something to say, but nothing came to his mind. Suddenly Olav felt every one of his thirty-eight years. ‘You fought well,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you, my King,’ Gunnthor said.

  ‘And you, Hjalti,’ he said. He turned to the gathered men, a good three hundred or so. ‘Hail Hjalti! Tonight I saw a side of him that I didn’t know existed. He was brave – almost foolishly so, one might say!’ A multitude of voices cheered, and for a moment everything was all right with the world. He noticed the glint in Gunnthor’s eye a moment too late.

  ‘But why were they running, my Lord?’ the old man said. ‘And what were they running from?’

  Storrek saw the opening immediately. ‘Are we even safe here?’ he shouted.

  The idea spread through the cold, exhausted men like poison in the blood and Olav could almost see the control of the situation slip out of his hands. He took a moment, a deep breath – there was only one option.

  ‘Of course we’re safe!’ he shouted with all the command he could muster. ‘But we have a responsibility to the people of Trondheim and to each other, so I will take all the volunteers I can get and go and have a look.’ Out of the corner of his eye he saw Gunnthor smirking, and anger flared within. There was maybe still a way to turn this to his advantage. ‘I will request only the presence of brave Hjalti Elk-Slayer – we could probably handle whatever spooked the animals, just the two of us!’

  Another cheer from the men, and Olav looked at Gunnthor and Storrek as fighters swarmed over Hjalti, eager for something to do. He cleared his throat and stepped towards the two chieftains. He noted with some pleasure that Storrek had to fight not to draw steel.

  ‘If there’s something out there,’ he said, ‘It will get what it deserves.’ He held their stare for another couple of heartbeats. ‘My enemies usually do,’ he added before he walked towards the longhouse door.

  *

  When King Olav stepped out again, armed and armoured, eighty men on horse waited for him, Hjalti at their front. Olav quickly scanned their faces and found he knew the names of three men in four. That would have to do.

  ‘Let’s go hunting!’ he shouted as he mounted his horse, to cheers from the men. Fear turned to joyous anger very quickly, he thought. It was remarkable how quickly their mood changed with the promise of violence.

  And then the column was ready to go. Hjalti rode at his right shoulder. The man looked like he was trying to make himself take up the least space possible. Good, Olav thought. It showed the bastard still had some survival instinct. Behind him rode the volunteers, three abreast, all heading out of Trondheim and up towards the North.

  They could see the broken branches and trampled snow where the stampede had come through: red, brown and yellow lines ground into the white where the fear had driven the animals. King Olav’s horse tossed its head; behind him he could hear a smattering of riders commanding their mounts to be still.

  King Olav turned to Hjalti. ‘The horses don’t like the smell of it, do they, Hjalti? Death? It’s all a bit much for them when it comes that close.’

  ‘Yes, my King,’ Hjalti muttered, staring at the back of his horse’s head.

  Satisfied, Olav turned and looked north. The moon was up, colouring the sky a dull grey. All shadows deepened in moonlight. They rode on up the stampede trail with the stink of fear in their nostrils. It came and went, dulled by the cold and caught in the trees, but there was no mistaking the sour smell of blood and guts from up ahead.

  Olav raised his arm and signalled for the halt. ‘Hjalti . . . ?’ he said, gesturing ahead.

  Head bowed, the lanky man rode forward. The snow dunes curved up, then away. Just past a high point he looked down to his left and stopped, then swung off his horse and knelt. His head turned slowly towards Olav. ‘You need to come see this.’

  The king urged his horse onwards, gently, keeping an eye on Hjalti’s blade all the while, but it stayed sheathed. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Look,’ Hjalti said. Almost as if reading the king’s mind, he took three steps backwards.

  The elk lay on its side, its entrails strung out behind it for a good thirty yards, alongside erratic hoof-prints and a line where its broken back leg had dragged in the snow.

  Without a word, Hjalti gestured to the animal’s stomach, or what was left of it.

  ‘What did this?’ Olav asked, when he’d found the ability to speak. More than half of the skin on the underside of the elk was gone, exposing the empty inner cavity. ‘Bear?’

  ‘There are no claw-marks.’

  ‘Blade?’

  ‘Look at the edge.’

  King Olav leaned closer, trying to breathe through his mouth and to keep his eye on Hjalti’s position. ‘It’s been—’

  ‘—ripped, yes.’

  The king rose. ‘Cover it up with snow, quickly – mask the smell.’ When Hjalti frowned, he explained, ‘For the horses.’

  Not waiting for an answer, he saddled up and rode past the dead beast, further into the forest, trying hard not to think about its fate. The tracks ran parallel to the trail of destruction, and soon other corpses started appearing: a trampled fox, sheep with badly mangled heads – some without heads altogether – and a bear with a shattered front leg.

  Slowly, the hardened fighters behind him had gone quiet, and now the only sound to be heard was the crunching snow under hooves and the occasional snort of disquiet from the horses, quickly followed by soothing whispers. The scent of pine needles mixed with the blood in the snow.

  ‘Our Father, who art in heaven,’ King Olav muttered to himself. ‘Hallowed be Thy name. Look down on Thy servant, and shield him from whatever it was that did this.’ The ground had been sloping gently upwards for a while and the corpses that littered the ground were now hardly recognisable.

  ‘They must have run down through here,’ Hjalti said, ‘trampling each other.’ King Olav didn’t answer and he went on, ‘They’ve stripped the bark off the trees.’ The king still didn’t reply. ‘I couldn’t do anything, my King. They threatened to kill—’

  The wind changed, and King Olav’s horse went mad, and moments later, the animals behind it started squealing and bucking, followed by the angry shouts of the riders. Hjalti was thrown clear of his horse; he watched it barrel down the path at speed, back towards Trondheim.

  ‘WE’RE UNDER ATTACK!’ King Olav screamed.

  ‘Not yet,’ a calm, familiar voice said from the top of the hill.

  With the reins twisted so tightly around his hand that he was sure he could feel the bones snapping, King Olav ke
pt hold of his horse – but only just. The figure, back-lit by the moon, stood tall on the ridge, fifty yards away, clear of the trees.

  The king didn’t dare look behind him but he could hear the horses bolting easily enough, along with the outraged shouts of the men. Something niggled at him. Something about the voice . . .

  Chapter 7

  SOUTHERN NORWAY

  DECEMBER, AD 996

  Helga from Ovregard leaned over and stroked Streak’s neck. ‘What’s the matter, girl?’ The horse tossed its head and snorted. ‘Are you just being an old grouch? Or . . . ?’ She tugged on the reins and Streak stopped all too readily. Helga dismounted smoothly and tasted the air. It had started snowing when they sailed across the channel, but it wasn’t cold enough to stick. Not yet. A white veil would appear overnight, vanish in the day and return when the temperature dropped. It would stay in about a week’s time, she gathered, and from what the bones had told her it would stay for a long time.

  ‘A long time,’ she muttered, pushing the quiet aside for a moment.

  There was a scent on the air, something . . . wrong. The forest could hide her from prying eyes, but it could also shelter all kinds of other things. Helga felt for her carving knife, though if there was anything about it would be about as useless as a harsh glare. Still, she remembered the times when it had saved her life and found some strength in that. Whatever was out here might have her, but it would not take her easily.

  Streak snorted and tossed her head again. ‘Yes, I know,’ Helga muttered. ‘I can smell it too.’ And the thing was up ahead, so there was nothing for it. ‘Let’s go, girl,’ she said, inching forward. She’d met many men who would say she was being weak and womanly, that she needed someone to protect her. They had many things in common, those men. They were all brave, and strong, and very dead.

  Helga of Ovregard would take her time.

  The reins felt rough in her hands, but Streak trudged along. Sometimes Helga thought she could hear the mare’s thoughts, and they were in a voice not entirely dissimilar from her own. Thoughts went unbidden to Audun’s hands, folded in his lap. Then they went somewhere else entirely, and she had to shake her head to dislodge them. ‘Oi,’ she muttered, half annoyed with herself for losing focus but not entirely able to shake the wolfish grin. It was getting colder and she couldn’t be blamed for warming herself on something, even if it was just memories of what could have been.